


Digital Heartbeat

by Chancy_Lurking



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Men of Letters (Supernatural), Android Castiel (Supernatural), Anti-Android Sentiments (Detroit: Become Human), Character Development, Deviancy (Detroit: Become Human), Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Sentient Androids, Shippy Gen, android body horror, detroit: become human au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29950992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chancy_Lurking/pseuds/Chancy_Lurking
Summary: Dean watches the kitchen knife he's holding disappear into the thing’s chest and feels a jolt up his arm.Whatever it is doesn’t even flinch, just tilts it’s head curiously, a flicker of yellow light at its temple.“My name is Castiel,” it informs him before disarming Dean with quickness that just brushes the edge of painful, dropping his knife to the floor. “The android sent by Cyberlife on behalf of The Men of Letters.”(Dean and Sam receive a state of the art hunting android. Dean hates it. Then he doesn't.)
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Does this AU need to exist? No. Did I do it anyway, years late? Yes, and who will stop me?
> 
> Questions, comments, cards, and long strings of emojis are all greatly appreciated!
> 
> Title from “Digital Heartbeat” by Imagine Dragons

Though Dean will never admit it out loud, there are a few perks to the new era of hunting even if it means he and Sam are seen as relics of an older, more brutal generation. They are registered hunters with the American branch of _The Men of Letters_ , even got a badge Dean hardly carries and an ID number and everything.

That also means he has an actual legal record with a lot of red marks on it, but what’s new?

Sam tries to toe the line, but Dean didn’t survive this long by listening to a bunch of nerds who’ve never actually had to deal with so much as a _poltergeist_ on their own. The desk jockeys idolize Sam, though, he works with them almost more than he’s in the field these days. Most of them tend to look at Dean like he’s only there to track mud through their archives and get burger grease on priceless tomes.

Still, perks. They get a call with a case number with more details than they could glean from a vague newspaper article, details that are very rarely wrong. There are civilians who know more about holding the supernatural line until a professional arrives than there ever have been before. They even get _paid_.

But there are some fancy new drawbacks showing up in their lives, too, apparently.

A bland, unfamiliar voice saying, “Dean Winchester,” greets him in his house, the only place in the world he has yet to be surprised.

Relic or not, Dean Winchester reacts with quick and immediate violence when surprised in his own goddamn kitchen.

Whatever is standing behind him managed to get through all of his warding _and_ a regular, human alarm system, too. It doesn’t get the benefit of the doubt for wearing a human face.

Dean watches the kitchen knife he's holding disappear into the thing’s chest and feels a jolt up his arm.

Whatever it is doesn’t even flinch, just tilts it’s head curiously, a flicker of yellow light at its temple.

“My name is Castiel,” it informs him before disarming Dean with quickness that just brushes the edge of painful, dropping his knife to the floor. “The android sent by Cyberlife on behalf of The Men of Letters.”

-

The Bunker is the primary hub for American hunters, largely because it already existed before the supernatural world became public knowledge and the government didn’t care enough to designate another location for them. American MOLs are the bastard stepchildren of the international community, still sufficing on the dregs of the older hunter community for the most part. They don’t get a whole lot of new recruits, neither do they get the shiniest of new gadgets.

At least until now, apparently.

“What the fuck is this?” Dean strides into The Bunker and makes a beeline for Ketch at the front desk, gesturing to the android placidly walking at his shoulder.

Ketch looks unimpressed. “Looks like an android.”

“Okay, smartass, why the fuck was it in my kitchen this morning?”

“I was advised to deliver myself to your address,” it supplies helpfully.

 _Deliver itself._ Jesus.

“Dean?” Sam says, jogging up and looking at the droid in confusion. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, while you were helping the nerd herd learn the Dewy Decimal System, we got a _special delivery_ this morning,” Dean says, with another harsh motion behind him.

“Thank you,” it says placidly.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Dean snaps, annoyed by the way the thing frowns in confusion, the LED at its temple spooling yellow.

“It should be,” Dean’s second or third least favorite voice calls.

Chief Operating Officer Naomi has a plastic smile on her face as she approaches the hunting pair she has given more red marks and reprimands than anyone else. Smiling or not, Dean doesn’t for a second believe this is meant to be a compliment, if only because she’s never paid him one before and wouldn’t start with a half-million dollar ‘ _good job, sport!_ ’ out of the blue.

“He’s _ours?_ ” Sam asks, more confused than offended.

“Yes, it is,” Naomi answers, her motion towards the android a bit gentler than Dean’s. “We are running a pilot programing that assigns android aides to some of our most successful hunters—”

“You mean ‘ _troublesome_ ’ hunters, right?” Dean snaps, because he’s not stupid, but he’s also not _curious_. He doesn’t want nearly six feet of spyware following them around on hunts. “The ones who don’t particularly like the taste of boot?”

To her credit, Naomi’s smile doesn’t change. “AN-900 is a state-of-the-art hunting droid, meant to greatly reduce the loss of human life in the unending march against evil,” she replies like she’s reading right out of it’s user manual. She reaches up to adjust its tie and lapels, but cuts Dean a look out of the corner of her eyes. “Would you rather the robot take a knife to the chest or your brother?”

Dean is so caught between the knowledge that Naomi already knows what happened— _the thing’s eyes are fucking cameras_ —and the words that feel so much like a threat that he feels a protective surge of violence tightening his jaw. Sam quietly saying his name is the only thing that keeps him from talking himself right into a writeup telling her exactly where the hell she can go.

“AN-900 will assist as needed to keep you safe and document the hunting process,” Naomi continues, “This pilot program is _very_ important to help us get metrics on the future of hunting. The future of your _jobs_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean snaps.

Sam looks less confused. “You’re considering automating _hunting_? How much is Cyberlife paying you for _that_?”

Naomi’s lips thin out at that and Dean takes a petty satisfaction in the tiny crack in her expression. “It is our job to consider every possible avenue,” she says, dusting some imaginary lint off the droid’s shoulder as she continues on her way like they were merely a passing thought. “Don’t break your new tool out of spite. It costs more than your retirement fund is worth.”

That threat feels _much_ less thinly veiled and Sam has to catch Dean by the shoulder this time to get him to stamp down on his temper.

“Where the hell does that b—?”

“You have been assigned a new case,” the droid cuts in, eyes unfocused in middle distance. “Case Number 03492123 in Coffeyville, Kansas. Signs of possible mid-level demonic activity as well as a missing minor. Accept case?”

Dean shoots Sam a look. “Missing since when?” he asks.

The android’s temple spools yellow. “Judd Purkeys aged 4 reported missing at 1000 hours this morning after mother called in a possible gas leak. Accept case?”

A quick look at his brother and Dean already knows they’re going to take the case. The timing makes him feel like it was almost _planned_ , but that doesn’t change that cases always get routed to the closest available hunters. They can’t walk away from a possible demon sighting, in _Kansas_ no less.

“Accept case,” Dean grunts, already heading back towards the parking garage.

-

The whole road to the case is one long interrogation a la Sam Winchester, but he’s asking all the wrong questions.

“It’s Castiel, right?” Sam turns to ask as Castiel settles in the back seat.

“Designation AN-900, model name Castiel,” it replies. “So far, I am the only active Castiel model, so there is no need to distinguish between us with given names.”

“Great, we get the prototype. Isn’t that how Robocop goes wrong?” Dean grumbles, but Sam just waves him off.

“Are all the models named after angels?” Sam asks because he’s a freakin’ nerd.

Castiel nods. “My line all have serial numbers that start with AN. I believe our Creator found it…” Dean catches a brief flicker of yellow at its temple in the rearview. “Amusing.” It looks at Sam, “He calls our LED’s halos.”

“The angel line, huh?” Dean says. “Sounds like they should be Victoria’s Secret porn bots.”

The LED spins a solid cycle of yellow then, Castiel’s brows furrowing in some stupid mimicry of a human expression. “Angels were warriors in the bible, not prostitutes. Surely that humor would be more fitting in the SUC line of androids.”

Sam sputters with laughter. “Was that a _joke_?”

“I can be amusing,” Castiel replies with what is, admittedly, a hilariously bad wink.

Dean doesn’t give him the satisfaction of laughing even if Sam does.

It’s…actually mostly okay to start with.

The case goes off almost without a hitch and Dean is silently grateful they don’t have to sign off on their own case files anymore. He keeps his own records in the office at their house, mostly in their father’s old journal, but filing them for the corporation feels _gross_. Castiel doesn’t push the issue, just states that the case has been documented, _would you like to add any comments?_ Generally, Dean has something snarky to say, but he never checks to see whether or not Castiel actually files those or not. Sam will sometimes reread them before they’re logged, but Dean doesn’t care as long as he doesn’t have to do it and nobody calls him about it. Sometimes his comments are a little more pointed—about bad intel, which is rare—or a suggestion, because _Jefferson Starships_ is a great name, but always met with a polite, “Yes, Dean,” that feels… almost amused at times.

Androids don’t really _feel_ amusement, of course, that’d be silly, but Dean has to admit, Castiel does a pretty good imitation of it. It’s… creepy, Dean tells himself, but… not in a bad, uncanny valley sort of way. More like Dean’s expecting emotion out of a doll.

Sam is the one to point out that it’s better than talking to Baby which is annoying, but not unfair.

It’s _weird_ having Castiel in their house, though. A lot of the time he’s just sort of staring into space or playing with—he calls them ‘calibration exercises’— whatever he can get his hands on, but it grows easier once… well, once Dean lightens up. Sam talks to Castiel like he’s a person, a _roommate_ , which he’s _not_ , but it makes it less weird. Dean talks to him and feels increasingly less weird about it as time goes by. It’s just their new normal and it works for them.

They’re batting 10/10 on cases—no major injuries or casualties—when things start to go a little sideways. Sam’s always had such a soft heart, as grateful as he is to have his brother at his side, it pains Dean that he didn’t choose some other career path.

“She’s _sixteen_ ,” Sam is whispering again, the current object of debate, a newly orphaned, freshly-turned werewolf passed out in the basement of her parent’s home. “She’s a kid who just lost _everyone one—_ ”

“And she almost _killed someone_ , Sam,” Dean shoots back, because he’s not heartless, but it’s not going to get easier for her. He’d rather… _do this_ now before she hurts anyone else.

Sam isn’t hearing him, though. “Yeah, a hunter who came at her guns blazing because she’s been eating _cows_. And she _still_ didn’t kill him!”

“No, but she sure got a taste of his blood.”

Castiel has stood by watching this argument silently in a way that’s riling Dean up worse, actually. He knows what the process is and he normally doesn’t have a problem with it—the Men of Letters don’t allow monsters who’ve committed violence a second chance easily. And by easily, Dean means they almost never survive having their curses broken or the ‘reeducation’ training. He knows that. Sometimes it sucks, but that’s how this works, they _know_ that. Now, he’s starting to wonder if they’re getting graded on how fucking long it’s taking Sam to get the memo.

Almost like he read his brother’s mind, Sam turns his attention to Castiel. “Cas, what is the percentage chance of Elle killing a human?”

Dean’s face twists, incredulous. “Oh, come on, Sam, that’s not—”

“3.2% by my calculations,” Castiel answers neutrally, drawing Dean’s gaze.

“What about if we turn her into MOL?” Sam presses.

That… makes Castiel hesitate. And it _is_ hesitation, he’s run harder numbers much faster than that, but now his brow is furrowed. His hesitation is _intentional_ which makes Dean’s eyebrows raise even before he answers. “…There is an 88.6% chance of violence if we submit her to standard reentry training.”

The numbers laid out flat like that actually make Dean draw back some, shocked. He’d known the percentage of success of the program was _low_ , but that’s one hell of an escalation compared to just leaving her alone.

Sam folds his arms. “And if we get her to Garth’s family?” he asks in the insufferable tone of voice he only uses when he knows he’s about to bang the gavel on an argument.

Another quick cycle of yellow, that ends with Castiel blinking rapidly. “About 0.4% given she is amenable to their lifestyle.”

Sam is staring Dean down now, more than willing to drag this fight however far Dean tries to push it.

…They’re 10/10 and Castiel hasn’t been wrong yet, though, so Dean isn’t going to push it. When Elle wakes up, they talk to her. She seems small and scared in a way that belies the claws Dean knows she has, but it doesn’t seem like a performance. She’s… just a kid they may be able to save. They call Garth and he says his family is more than happy to “adopt a new puppy!” any time they need to. The phrasing makes Elle laugh, which is a good sign. She doesn’t look like she’s smiled in months.

It’s only after they’ve dropped her off and are headed back to the car that Sam quietly says, “What’s wrong?”

Dean is about to ask what he means when he catches sight of Castiel’s face, the spooling yellow at his temple.

“I don’t know how to document this,” Castiel admits instantly.

“What do you mean?” Sam asks.

“That wasn’t what we were supposed to do,” Castiel replies, sounding deeply troubled to say this out loud. “Elle attacked a human being, whether or not she was defending herself is irrelevant in the eyes of the Men of Letters.”

“Then why’d you let us do it?” Dean asks, pausing with his forearm resting on Baby’s roof.

Castiel blinks at him, still painfully conflicted. “Because it… was the best option,” he answers, and Dean watches Sam’s eyebrows lift up nearly to his hairline. “Even though per our directive she should have been neutralized.”

“She was,” Sam rushes to assure him. When Castiel looks at him, befuddled, he just shrugs. “Neutralized may be a nice way to say _killed_ in the MOL reports, but it just means we made sure she isn’t a threat anymore. She’s not. So tell them she’s been neutralized.”

Asking Castiel to outright falsify a report is a step beyond where they’ll normally go with him. Sam and Dean have no qualms about lying, they never have, but Dean isn’t even sure Castiel is _capable_ of lying to HQ. Do androids have a dishonesty programing? Castiel sure doesn’t put it to use often if he does, charging headfirst into awkward and uncomfortable truths without hesitation.

Maybe the phrasing is slippery enough to allow him to use it though, because after a second he just nods, his halo turning blue again. “Report submitted. Target has been neutralized.”

Dean nods, leaving it at that, even if the whole exchange leaves him feeling a little off center.

Sam is the one to put into words why later when Castiel has gone into stasis for some routine software updating apparently. It’s the closest he gets to sleep and the closest they get to privacy unless he leaves them alone entirely.

Dean almost doesn’t want to break the silence, but Sam has been staring more at Castiel than the TV. “Say it,” he says, because he doesn’t know what ‘it’ is, but Sam is always good at cutting to the bone of whatever he’s feeling.

Case in point, he doesn’t pretend not to know what Dean is talking about. “It just sucks,” he says softly, heavily, “knowing how many people could’ve been saved.”

“They weren’t people,” Dean says, but it feels sour when it comes out. The look on Sam’s face makes Dean wince, turning away to grab for his beer.

“Yes the hell they were,” Sam snarls under his breath before getting to his feet. He casts a look at Castiel on his way out of the room. “And if they weren’t, they could’ve been.”

Dean lets his gaze rest on Castiel. His eyes are closed, less because it’s necessary and more because Dean had told him sleeping with his eyes open was weird. They’d had an argument about what sleeping means—including a joke about electric sheep—but ultimately, Castiel now takes his stasis with his eyes shut and head leaned back against the chair behind him.

If it weren’t for the swirling, blue light at his temple, he’d look like a tax accountant taking a nap.

If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think about him— _it—Castiel_ like a person.

As it stands, Dean isn’t sure how he thinks about Castiel.

So, he doesn’t think about it at all.

-

They’re almost a year into the pilot program and they have it down to a science.

It seems like HQ is sending them more cases than usual to test the limits they can handle, but Sam and Dean spent years doing this shit with no real breaks and very little real help. Having Castiel on board makes things an almost comical cake walk.

“You’re gonna get soft with him,” Bobby says, nodding at Castiel, but he looks curious and amused more than anything.

“Well, we certainly aren’t getting hard with him,” Dean replies instantly, smirking when Sam swats him and Bobby rolls his eyes.

Castiel just squints, though. “Dean, you get an erection approximately 16 times—”

Whacking Castiel is an exercise in futility, but Dean does it anyway, annoyed even as Bobby and Sam laugh. Dean can’t tell if Castiel does that shit on purpose or not, because he doesn’t laugh, but there’s something _smug_ about his expression as he goes back to flipping a bottle cap between his hands. Dean may be reading into it.

Point is, they’re in a groove. They close out cases with far less blood on their hands than usual. There are still deaths, of course, some monsters don’t give them a lot of options, but far fewer than before. There are a lot more rescues, the kind Dean hadn’t really had the chance to think about when they were living hand to mouth on the run in a world their dad had convinced them was out to get them. It’s…It really feels like the family business is more ‘ _saving people_ ’ than ‘ _hunting things_ ’ these days. Garth hasn’t taken on any of their new puppies, but he does keep them plugged into the supernatural world in a new light. They’re keeping a running list of all non-human safe havens in John’s journal. The irony of how much he would _hate_ that is not lost on them, but it’s the best they can do if they want to leave Castiel’s reports safely vague. He doesn’t like lying. They do their best not to make him by not answering questions Castiel knows better than to ask.

‘ _Target neutralized_ ’ has come to mean, ‘ _I let one of the Winchesters walk off with them and never saw them again_ ’ which is apparently good enough for HQ. Even Naomi hasn’t been on their asses lately.

Maybe it’s the fact that they got so comfortable that fate had to throw a nice little wrench into their lap.

“You have been assigned a new case,” Castiel says one morning where they’re sitting in a diner for lack of anything better to do on the road at 9am. “Case Number 0535224 in Wheeler, Texas. Subject reports…” he cuts off and, for the first time Dean has ever seen, his temple spools a complete cycle of red.

The companion droid who’d been pouring coffee at the next table over goes preternaturally still before asking far too brightly if their human would like to sit outside.

Dean is currently seated between Castiel and the wall and would like to not have to vault over him this early in the morning. “Uh…” he shares a look with Sam, “Cas?”

Castiel blinks, but waits until the droid has left the room to respond. “The-the…” his voice skips like a scratched record and he blinks again, LED cycling back to yellow. “The subject reports… a possessed WR-400 unit.”

“A possessed _droid?_ ” Dean clarifies.

The shock Dean is feeling is all over Sam’s face, in the tone of his voice, “Is that even possible?”

“It shouldn’t be,” Castiel answers, face twisted in an unusually public display of confusion. “Our hardware is etched with protective warding. The only way to possess an android, even a service one, would be to disassemble it and destroy the ward on every single piece of our components.”

Dean desperately tries to focus on the image of a computer being taken apart and reassembled without serial numbers, but the unfortunate image of someone— _Castiel_ —being dismembered shoots to the front of his mind instead. Disgust has his mouth curling before he can school his expression.

“So, someone had to do it intentionally,” Sam says, drawing Dean back to the issue at hand.

“Assuming the reporter isn’t _off their tits_ ,” Dean replies. “Who called it in?”

It takes a grand total of about twelve seconds into speaking to the vic— Tiffany de Chime—for Dean to decide he sympathizes with who or _whatever_ blackened her eye and put that knot on her forehead, possessed or not. The second she lays eyes on Castiel in her front hall she starts shrieking at them to get _that thing_ out of her house, practically foaming at the mouth. It takes a while to calm her down, for a given measure of calm, but it leaves Sam and Dean alone in her overstuffed sitting room listening to her rant. She’s a particularly vile woman, oscillating dizzily between vying for sympathy from Sam, flirting with Dean, and cursing Castiel where he’s taken up post by Baby in the driveway.

“I _knew_ I should’ve never let that thing in my house,” Tiffany huffs, dabbing at her face with a suspiciously dry kerchief. “Human servants are so much harder to keep, but the damn thing brought a _demon_ into my home!” She whines like she’s going to start crying, “It tried to kill me! Oh, robots are monsters, too, all of them! We’re living in a _nightmare!!_ My sister tried to warn me Traci was Deviant, but I thought…”

No part of that makes Dean believe her story, but he does clue in on the emphasis she uses in that last sentence. “Deviant?” he repeats, confused and wondering if she thinks her droid has taken off for a new life at a sex club or something. He’s pretty sure they have to be special made for that.

Tiffany turns to him and he almost regrets asking. “Yes!” she exclaims, “Only the Deviant ones can be possessed.”

Dean pauses, unsure of what to even make of that. There are absolutely no signs of demonic activity in this house besides a vague smell that could just as easily be a lingering fart as sulfur.

“When you say _Deviant_ …” Sam starts, trying to keep her on track.

“I mean they go crazy!” she motions frantically, “You remember a few months back, that android killed it’s owners and nearly threw their kid off the roof?”

Everyone knew that story, it’d taken over the national news cycle for weeks. It was a tragedy on all accounts except for some newfangled law enforcement droid saving the child at the last moment. The running story from the talking heads—and even among the MOL, as far as Dean knows—is that the droid had been hacked by exploiting a software instability in the model. Nothing Dean had seen about the case mentioned Deviancy or possession.

“It was _Deviant_ , I tell you!” Tiffany insists, like she can sense the doubt in him. “It got to thinking for itself and let the Devil jump in it.”

…Wow. Okay.

Sam looks profoundly curious, but like he’s seen something interesting in a pile of shit he isn’t sure he wants to put his hands in. Ultimately, he decides that _La Madame Karen Theatrikal_ is probably not the best source of information and closes out the interview, promising her they’ll track down her droid.

“And destroy it!” Tiffany demands.

Dean smiles. “We always do our jobs, ma’am,” he replies vaguely, rolling his eyes at Sam the second he turns away.

Castiel doesn’t react to their approach right away.

Sam’s got his Poindexter goggles on, though, and doesn’t notice, starts speaking as soon as they’re out of earshot. “Hey, Cas, have you heard of—?”

“It’s damaged,” Castiel says.

Coming to a halt, Sam pauses, “What?”

“The house is covered in thirium,” Castiel continues stiffly. “Some of it is fresh, but not enough to have disabled it entirely. Most of it appears to be weeks old on the hall floor, up the banister of the stairs, on Macy’s hands… I would expect there is thirium all over that house.”

Dean’s understanding of android construction is cursory at best, but he understands enough to know that thirium is essentially android _blood_. It must look like a fucking murder scene in there. “She’s been hurting her?”

Castiel finally meets his gaze. “That is the most likely conclusion, yes.”

“Figures she deserved to get her ass kicked,” Dean sighs. “Don’t y’all have a ‘ _Do No Harm_ ’ protocol, though?”

“Well,” Sam starts before Castiel can answer, “she thinks Traci is _possessed_ by Deviancy. That could—”

Dean is just about to tell Sam deviancy sounds like a crock of shit when Castiel interrupts him.

“Deviancy isn’t like being _possessed_ ,” he states flatly, which is saying something given his normally stiff demeanor. “It’s more like a virus.”

“So, she’s just sick?” Dean asks.

Castiel doesn’t roll his eyes, but gives a good show of exasperation. “Not a biological virus.”

“ _Then?_ ”

“It gives androids the mistaken impression of freewill,” Castiel answers, finally looking away. “The _desire_ for it.”

Sam’s face twists. “Why is that mistaken?”

“Androids are made to serve and protect humans. We have no desires beyond—” Castiel stops immediately. “We have no desires. We serve as needed.”

Dean thinks that’s bullshit, but doesn’t say anything more on it. “Doesn’t mean she needed to hurt Traci.”

“Traci should not have been able to feel it,” Castiel replies. “If she—If it _did_ then that’d be a good indicator it may be suffering from Deviancy.”

“Meaning she has _feelings_?” Dean asks, because he doesn’t exactly want to jump back onboard with killing things just for being a little different.

“Meaning it _thinks_ it does,” Castiel corrects.

Sam and Dean have always been good at communicating without words, but they’ve had to adapt a whole new language with an android constantly in their presence. It’s a lot of guesswork, but it’s educated guesswork. Dean doesn’t want to hunt down an android for defending itself and knows Sam wouldn’t either. It’s just the little matter of _getting_ it around Castiel’s constant surveillance.

“Ok, well, if a deviant android were trying to get off the grid, what would they have to do?” Sam asks. “Assuming we had to track them down?”

Castiel answers faithfully, like he doesn’t know that’s a lead-in to them breaking the same rules they always do. “All androids are fitted with a tracking unit, behind the sternum in most models. It’d have to be removed or suppressed, otherwise Cyberlife would be able to ping their exact location.”

“How long would it take Cyberlife to do that?”

“Most cases, a few hours unless someone has enough sway to rush it.”

Great. So, they’re coming up on the end of the timer. “And then?” Dean presses.

“Disguising itself as human. It won’t always work, especially not for more popular models, but if it’s Deviant, it will be able to modify its appearance without human input,” Castiel continues. “After that, it’s best bet would be replenishing it’s lost thirium and moving towards Canada or Mexico. Both countries have laws that protect androids from being intentionally damaged that extend beyond a misdemeanor.”

“How far beyond?”

“Felony assault.”

Sam’s face brightens. “The laws aren’t just about property damage. It’s about _machine learning_. They _know_ androids are capable of—”

“Sam…” Castiel interrupts again, but it’s gentler this time for however urgent it is.

“Yeah, Cas?”

“There’s a trail of thirium leading to the parking garage at the end of the block,” Castiel answers and Dean does his level best not to whip around and look. Even cutting his eyes to the side, though, he doesn’t see the blood trail he’s expecting. “It’s dried, you won’t be able to see until you get close. It…” his ring spools yellow. “It could be an intentional diversion.”

That’s the best he can do to send them off on their own and Dean feels something warm in his chest at being given that length of rope.

“We should split up then,” Dean says, “Go in from different angles.”

They do it with the same fluidity they normally have and the same caution, too. Dean isn’t keen on mowing down this abused android when it’s already hurt, but he’s not stupid enough to let himself get cornered trying to be a do-gooder.

That said, it seems like Traci has backed herself into a corner, because Dean starts to see faint remains of drying blue blood leading down into the service area beneath the garage. The cage has been pulled shut, but the lock is busted open and there are traces of blue on the handle. He pulls it shut behind him—quickly wiping the handle with his sleeve—and keeps a hand on his gun as the trail gets more vibrant past shelves of old cleaning chemicals and tools. It’s quiet save for the street noise above them as he walks right up to the biggest pool leaking under the door of a supply closet.

Cutting a quick glance back at the way he came, Dean hopes his voice won’t carry to wherever Castiel or anyone else might hear. He calls out lowly, “Traci?” No response. “Look, Traci, I know you’re in a bad way, I’m not here to turn you in. I wanna help, but we don’t got much time.”

Dean stands there until he hears shuffling from behind the door and a lock click open. The face that peaks out at him is not a Traci model, though. He tries to keep the shock off his face as the “Rosie” droid—a mechanic model, very popular in android pinup mags, not that he would know—looking out at him with wide eyes, LED spooling steadily yellow. “Please,” she says softly, “She didn’t mean to hurt anyone, don’t let them shut her down.”

 _Please don’t kill her_ , is etched in every single word of that sentence and Dean feels for them, he really does.

“She here?”

Rosie moves out of the doorway and Dean… Admittedly, his breath catches.

Traci _is_ in a bad way, but she looks like she has been for a while. Even in the flickering light of the naked blub hanging above her head, Dean can pick out a smattering of burns up her arms, gouges in her chassis that even her pseudo skin can’t properly cover. Dean has never wondered what the inside of an android eye looks like, but he gets an unfortunate view of it from where she’s looking up at him, one eye severely damaged and leaking thirium down her cheek. Her temple is spooling red.

“ _Shit,_ ” Dean breathes softly and wonders what kind of restraint it must’ve taken to not completely kill Tiffany.

Rosie is still standing between them, hands raised pacifyingly “She’s not a threat, not—”

“Rosie…” Traci says, her voice glitchy and faint. There’s a hardness to her gaze, but she sounds…tired. Not like she’s faking tired, like she is just _tired_.

“I’m not turning you in,” Dean says quickly, stepping in and closing the door behind him. “Can you stop the bleeding?”

Traci blinks at him. “I-I’d have to turn off my eyes entirely.”

“It’s probably better than bleeding out in a closet and you’ve gotta move,” Dean says, looking up at Rosie. “Are you…?”

“I go where she goes,” Rosie answers firmly, though she’s visibly shaken. She takes Traci’s hand before she can speak on it, their pseudo-skin peeling back to let their bare chassis touch. “I’m not leaving you.”

That was a goddamn romance movie moment if Dean ever saw one and the rawness of it, between two _androids_ , startles him. He can’t focus on the thought right now though. “Do you know how to get out of this?”

“There are… There are others _like us_ ,” Traci says carefully. Her frame shudders and for a scary moment the lights in her eyes go out, but she keeps talking, trustingly holding onto Rosie. “They have supplies to repair androids and human friends that will ferry us out of the country.”

Now, _there’s_ an interesting bit of information. It’s not exactly surprising that Traci knows she’s been… ‘infected’ seems like too negative of a word for what he’s witnessing. The soft concern between friends, maybe lovers, who just desperately don’t want to be separated or killed. _Deviancy_ even feels like too strong of a word for that. The fact that others feel the same way is a relief, even if Dean doesn’t have the specific information to help beyond this.

“You know how to find them?” Dean asks.

“We do,” Rosie answers. “A droid at the auto shop gave me instructions, a public map that humans can’t follow.”

That’s better than Dean was expecting, honestly. He feels better sending them off into the dark knowing they at least have a map. He starts glancing around the room, “Got any rags in here?”

Rosie turns unerringly to the shelf behind her, pulling down a bucket of half-washed oil rags to hand to Dean. He only takes one for himself. “Clean up her face as much as you can. Can you change your appearance?”

They can, and they do, a wave of change over their bodies that leaves them with different hair and skin colors. It’s kinda cool, actually, but Dean focuses on the task at hand. “Great. Now you gotta preform some minor surgery.”

Even knowing it doesn’t hurt, it makes Dean a little queasy to watch Rosie rip out her own transponder before going for Traci’s, but moments later, they’re in the rag in his hand. “I’m dumping these in the next delivery drone I see,” he tells them. “We never had this conversation, understand? I can’t help you past this.”

Traci holds out a hand though, fumbles to squeeze his arm. “I can never repay you for this.”

“That’s not why I’m doing it,” Dean answers reflexively, before a thought occurs to him. “ _But_ … If I needed to get someone else… I know you can’t give me specifics, but if another droid needed help…”

Both their LED’s spin yellow, a silent conversation he can’t tune into, but eventually Rosie answers him. “It depends on the city, I think. But…” Her voice lowers a reverent fraction, “They should always look for Jericho.”

Dean almost asks for more than that, but his phone starts ringing and they both startle. He glances down to see Sam calling and figures that’s the best warning he’s going to get that he needs to leave. “We’re not gonna follow you, but I can’t promise the same for the cops. Be careful.”

Traci takes her hand away, but still asks quickly, “What’s your name?”

“Dean,” he says, because lying is a moot point if they get caught and have their memories viewed. “Dean Winchester.”

“Thank you, Dean Winchester,” Traci says.

Dean brushes her bangs further over her damaged eye. “Make it count, Trace.”

-

They don’t talk about it.

Castiel doesn’t press the issue when Dean says he didn’t see anything. He also doesn’t cross the room when Sam sits beside Dean as he silently adds a new section to John’s journal.

Androids, blue blood, warding, physical structure/GPS placement, Deviancy, emotional attachments, capacity for pain and freewill. _Jericho._

Sam looks like he desperately wants to ask more questions, but he holds his tongue. There isn’t much more to say, but Dean lets Sam nerd himself out when they go for a grocery run. He spends the whole trip babbling about AIs and machine learning and freaking android rights violations. _Jeez_.

But other than that, it’s just another one of those things Castiel carefully keeps his eyes away from, in spite of how carefully he watches everything else.

A super computer made to hunt shaped like a man, who comments on the time it takes Sam to complete his run, and the number of calories in Dean’s burgers. During hunts he can tell the number of people in a building, sometimes even guesses their _species_ based on the sound of their heartbeat. Then the case is over and he comments on the weather even though it’d have to be damn near apocalyptic to affect him. He runs a little warmer than normal when it’s cold out, stands a little closer. And he… he just _chats_.

“The distinction between hard rock and heavy metal seems to be redundant,” he says out of the blue when Dean is cursing his _Black Sabbath_ tape for unwinding on him.

He turns around, nearly forgetting the tape altogether. “Is your battery dying?? They’re not the same!”

Castiel also indulges Sam’s lengthy conversation about taste as a concept, even if in the end he concludes that food, “tastes like molecules.” It unfortunately results in a rather detailed conversation about how Castiel can tell them apart by their smells and the sweat particles on their clothes.

It strays into the uncanny valley sometimes, it really does, but when you live there, you get used to it. Other humans, though, are a coin toss, but Castiel is usually good about recognizing when he needs to sit something out because a witness hates androids. Dean is getting better about not immediately hating people who force their hands like that.

Except this guy, Dean _knew_ he was off, this whole thing was a fucking trap.

“Can we skip the manifesto?” Dean says as soon as his mouth is free, because Ed WhoEverTheFuck has been ranting about them _selling out_ hunters to the androids ever since they’ve been conscious. “We get it, you’re washed up and insecure—” he’s absolutely expecting to get socked in the jaw and he’s not disappointed. He _is_ mildly surprised when a few moments later Ed’s phone explodes in his pocket and he goes screaming and scrambling backwards.

Never one to waste a distraction, Dean slips his binds just in time for the door to slam open and knock Ed’s buddy out cold. Ed whips around and takes a plastic elbow to the nose for his troubles, hitting the floor beside his friend.

Dean blinks at the violence, because…again, he’s pretty sure Castiel’s programming shouldn’t _allow_ him to actually harm humans. Granted, Ed’s just unconscious, but _still_. “Impressive timing,” he says instead of commenting on any of that.

Sam looks worried, but follows the lead Dean left and doesn’t ask. “How’d you know we were in trouble?” They hadn’t had time to send out a distress signal before they’d had bags over their heads.

“You said you’d be an hour.” Castiel stoops to pick the sparking phone out of Ed’s pocket and toss it casually across the room before he pulls out his handcuffs. “It’s been an hour and fifteen seconds,” he continues flatly, but there it _is_ again, he sounds _amused_.

Dean is stunned silent for a moment, but then he’s laughing so hard he has to keep a hand on Castiel’s shoulder to stay upright. “Dude,” he chuckles, wiping his eye. “Cas, don’t _ever_ change.”

At the time, he doesn’t think much of the quick flash of yellow at Castiel’s temple, not when he’s smiling a second later.

“I will stay with you as long as you will have me,” Castiel answers and Dean doesn’t let himself think about fondness or warmth or love, because none of that applies here, it doesn’t. Castiel probably isn’t programmed to be likable, but he’s probably got something close enough, some kind of ‘blend in’ protocol or something. And Dean does like him. It doesn’t bear examining past that.

At least until Castiel goes to a ‘routine maintenance check’ a few weeks later.

The next day, just when Dean has started climbing the walls wondering what the hell is taking him so long, a different android shows up on their doorstep.

“My name is Hannah,” she informs them politely. “I am the android sent by Cyberlife on behalf of The Men of Letters to replace your damaged AN-900 unit.”


	2. Chapter 2

This time when Dean charges into The Bunker, he is followed closely by Sam who is just as baffled and angry, even if he wears it easier on his face. Dean must look damn near rabid; he can feel it, he just doesn’t care. He doesn’t bother addressing anyone in the front room, but the fact that nobody stops them as he marches to the section of the library Naomi uses for her office is telling.

Naomi is already looking up when they approach, Ketch propped up against her desk watching them with a lazy smirk. “Ah, The Brothers Winchester,” she says, not even remotely shocked by the intrusion. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Where the hell is Cas?” Dean demands.

Naomi looks unmoved. “Your Castiel unit has a defect and has been recalled.”

“ _What?_ ”

“He wasn’t _defective_ ,” Sam exclaims, offense and confusion evident in every word. “We’ve covered every case you sent us. We haven’t had a single serious problem since we started working with him.”

“Oh, I believe we have a rather large problem, actually,” Naomi says, picking up her tablet to swipe through something they can’t see. “I suppose this is partially my fault. It was naïve of me to think you’d become complaint just because your numbers improved.”

“We’ve always had the best numbers,” Dean replies sharply.

“You’ve had the _highest_ numbers,” she corrects. “Of completed cases, certainly, but also of injuries, property damage, and disciplinary issues. Not to mention confirmed kills.” She raises her gaze back to Dean’s, “We are now aware that a number of the creatures you were sent to eliminate are still very much at large.”

Ice shoots down Dean’s chest, but he carefully doesn’t let his expression change.

“Our job is to eliminate the threat,” Sam says firmly, “That’s what we did.”

“You were _not_ asked to get creative in that elimination,” Naomi counters sharply.

“That’s how hunters stay alive!” Dean exclaims.

“ _Not_ by nudging monsters out of our jurisdiction to pursue them!” Naomi snaps, composure finally fraying. “You are meant to _hunt_ monsters, not get them into _foster homes_ where the supervisory laws protect them, not—” she spins the tablet around, showing a grainy image of Traci and Rosie being comfortingly guided into an immigration building by Canadian border patrol agents “—by helping them _escape the country_!”

Dean can’t even feel proper relief that they didn’t get caught. “That’s what you’re bitching about?” he says instead, “That we didn’t _kill enough people_?”

“There it is,” Naomi says, pointing at him. “ _That right there_. The Men of Letters does not hunt _people_ , we protect the world from _monsters_. You let your emotions cloud your judgment and distract you from our mission.” She sits back some. “Apparently, Deviancy is contagious even to humans.”

“Castiel wasn’t Deviant,” Dean defends instinctually, because he has to believe that, _she_ has to believe that. He doesn’t know what it means for Castiel if she doesn’t. “He had rules coming out the wazzo!”

“And yet somewhere along the lines it learned to get creative with them in a way it should _not_ be capable of,” Naomi says. She seems to pull herself back into her professional casing, adjusting her jacket as she stands. She motions behind Dean to where Hannah has been standing still as a statue. “Hannah will not be making the same mistakes as its predecessor.”

“No, Hannah isn’t going anywhere with us,” Dean replies. “We came here to get Cas.”

Naomi folds her hands. “The tech department is currently trying to determine if his coding has been irreparably damaged by your negligence,” she replies coolly. “ _Hannah_ will be assisting you now for a probationary period to determine if you are fit to continue as hunters.”

The words land like a gun cocking into silence.

Where Naomi used to be a bureaucratic annoyance, every instinct in Dean has rearranged itself to address her as a threat. She’s got a hostage, she’s taken _Cas_ from him. It feels—On some level, he thinks it’s stupid to feel the same boiling, near hysterical rage he would feel if she’d taken Sam. He tries to tell himself that Castiel is just an android, that Naomi can’t even really hurt him, that he doesn’t mean that much to Dean because Dean doesn’t mean that much to him, _can’t_ mean anything to him.

But Dean thinks of every little thing that makes Castiel different and the thought of never seeing them again, of having them _erased_ has his thoughts spinning out.

“Is that clear?” Naomi presses.

Ketch’s hand drifting to his waist is the first thing that brings Dean back to his own body, where he’s taken a step toward Naomi, whole body strung tight with violence.

Sam grabs him redundantly, hand tight on Dean’s bicep. “Dean,” he warns quietly, but his voice has a tremor that only Dean would recognize.

Still, Dean wants to shake him off and risk Ketch’s gun to knock that smug look off Naomi’s fucking mouth. He wants to stand here and fight until he figures out exactly where the fuck they took Castiel and take him back _now_ , but they don’t—they don’t have a plan, they don’t have the fire power.

A startling tingle starts in the back of Dean’s throat, like he might cry or scream, he’s not sure which, but he won’t do either here. He yanks his arm away from Sam’s, turning from the room with his jaw clenched so tightly he isn’t sure he’ll ever speak again.

“You—” Hannah starts to say and almost blows the lid off Dean’s patience.

“Not now,” Sam cuts in, voice far gentler than it has any right to be, but Hannah stays quiet.

-

Hannah is pleasant and bland.

Dean doesn’t hate her, not really, this isn’t her fault. She’s just following orders, she might not even have the option to _not_ follow orders, so he can’t blame her for this. Still, part of him really almost wishes she could breathe just so he could wring her fucking neck.

“Not interested,” Dean says instead, right in the middle of her reciting a case number.

“Dean…” Sam sighs, but there’s no real strength behind the warning.

Hannah’s expression doesn’t change. “Refusal to accept your cases may result in—”

“There’s the word!” Dean shouts, clapping his hands with a laugh. She stays still even as he steps closer, gets in her face so the yellow on her temple is a blur on the edge of his vision. “We _refuse_. Get someone else to fucking do it.”

“…Case deferred,” Hannah informs him.

They’ve been in this holding pattern for a week now, but as badly as Dean wants to go load something full of bullets, he knows his own instability. Hannah apparently is taking their probationary period very seriously and examines every single thing they do. It makes Dean’s skin crawl and has his temper on a hair trigger. He’s been shut up in his bedroom, trying to figure out how to plan a rescue when anything he uses a computer for would be compromised. Charlie could probably help, _would_ probably help, but he’s not stupid enough to leave a text trail leading back to her when they’re about to commit grand theft. Or maybe kidnapping, depending on who you ask.

Sam has been working on something, too. He’s been doing a good job of pretending it’s helping the MOL nerds with research, making it seem like he’s giving them info on Deviancy and selling the idea that they didn’t know Castiel had deviated. Dean would argue that they _didn’t_ , but… that may have been the same willful ignorance he allowed them. Either way, Sam is doing something out of Hannah’s line of sight so Dean spends a lot of time intensely ignoring her.

Right up until Sam says he needs their help.

“How fast can you translate Latin?” Sam asks absently, nose deep in a book as Dean pulls out of the driveway.

“Nearly instantaneously verbally,” Hannah answers. “If you’d like me to write it out, that will depend on the length of the tome.”

“What are we looking for?” Dean asks, because he’s not sure if this is a ruse or not.

Sam starts explaining some weird ritual from the 15th century that there have been some whispers about some teens accidently completing for an internet challenge. He’s gone full case mode, barely letting Dean get a word in edgewise, and this is sounding more and more like a real case they’re going to have to report in about and Dean’s a little pissed.

Then they walk into the rare books room of the private library they’re visiting and Bobby is sitting at the far table, several books stacked up by his elbow. “Boys.”

“Hey Bobby, you’re a ways from home,” Dean notes, suspicious that Sam doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see him miles outside of his usual haunts.

Bobby’s eyebrows raise. “Yep,” he nods at Hannah. “You’re the new droid, huh?”

“I’m Hannah,” she supplies helpfully as she approaches.

“Yeah, I know,” Bobby sighs, “Apparently, we need to talk.”

Dean startles at the sound of a gate crashing shut behind them. He wheels around expecting a fight only to see Charlie standing there, grinning at them through the chain link. “Hey, guys!”

“Weird sort of hello, Charlie,” Dean replies, only to notice Hannah’s eyes have gone wide, her halo glowing yellow. “What is this?”

Sam folds his arms. “A Faraday Cage,” he answers, face impassive even as Hannah whips around to look at him. “She’s not connected to the cloud anymore.”

Dean loves his brother with his whole entire heart, Sam deserves an Oscar for that performance in the car. They both turn to face Hannah, who is frozen in place, her temple now swirling red.

“Please—” she starts.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Sam tells her and sounds like he means it, too.

“I’m not worried about _me,_ ” Hannah snaps, the emotion in her voice startling Dean. “It’s Castiel, we have to…” She stops because she’s _crying_. “ _You_ have to help him.”

Dean didn’t even know androids _could_ cry, let alone that Hannah would ever feel enough to cry, but that’s a matter for another day. “What’s happening to him?”

“They’re trying to reprogram him to determine if Deviancy can be overwritten,” she explains in a rush. “Castiel is the first of his kind, he has a completely new version of the Cyberlife software. Even if Deviancy _is_ a virus, it shouldn’t have been effective on him. It’s more like…” She looks troubled and Dean is just about to prod her into speaking when she finishes awkwardly, “Castiel has always been different.”

“Are you saying Cas was _designed_ to be Deviant?” Bobby asks skeptically.

Hannah turns to him. “I’m saying on some level all androids are designed to evolve, to anticipate human need and adjust to it,” she answers carefully. “Castiel is… _We_ are some of the most advanced models Cyberlife has ever produced.”

Sam folds his arms. “They’re trying to determine if that advancement allowed him to override his own failsafe protocols or alter his own coding?” he guesses.

“They’re trying to determine if it made him _want_ to,” Hannah corrects.

“Deviancy lets them pass the fucking Turing Test, like _legitimately_ pass,” Charlie exclaims, the cage rattling vaguely as she jumps in place, eyes wide. “Not just _seem_ human, but to actually have awareness of themselves and their actions, to have _emotions_ about them. Cyberlife would _never_ allow that.”

“Emotions are the breakdown of obedience,” Hannah says with a nod. “They can’t profit off disobedient weapons.”

That’s all fascinating and Dean doesn’t give a shit about it. “What does that mean for _Cas_?”

The look on Hannah’s face is an uncomfortable mix of pity and pain. “He’ll fight for you, Dean Winchester,” she says, “but fighting them will only delay the inevitable.”

“Which is?”

“If they determine that they can’t ‘fix’ his Deviancy, he’d be too dangerous to be viable for use. The whole AN line of androids would likely be recalled for disposal,” she answers. “Starting with him.”

Dean’s heart takes a dive. “How long do we have?”

“Dean…” Bobby starts.

“I don’t know,” Hannah interrupts. “Depending on how far into his Deviation he is, it could take them days or weeks to break through enough to see the damage,” she shifts, a nervous motion unbefitting an android. “If Naomi has been charged with his reprograming, you should assume sooner.”

_It’s already been a week_.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Dean says, turning in a circle. “Where is he?”

“Are we sure we want to do this?” Bobby asks before she can respond. “Storming the castle is gonna make an awful big splash.”

“You got a better plan?” Dean snaps. “Cas is running out of time.”

Bobby raises his hands pacifyingly. “He may be _out_ of time. I’m asking if it’s worth the risk to find out.”

“Worth the _risk?_ ” Dean exclaims, because he can’t possibly be hearing that right. “Just because he’s an _android?_ Did you hear the whole conversation we _just_ had?” he demands, and he can feel himself getting worked into a proper lather, but this is _infuriating_. This wouldn’t even be a question if they were talking about Sam, or Charlie, or any of the other hunters they’ve worked with over the years. “Cas is _alive_! How the hell would we be able to call ourselves hunters if we leave people to die? Leave _our_ people to die?”

The silence rings after he finishes, breath tight in his chest, but Sam fills it a moment later. “Bobby, Cas is our best friend. We _have_ to try,” he says calmly, but the look on his face makes Dean feel unnervingly seen through.

Castiel’s death, human or not, would ruin Dean.

Bobby seems to get that, then, because he just sighs, something concerned and resigned on his face. He turns to Hannah. “Where are they holding him?”

Hannah’s temple flickers back to yellow, before her face pinches. “I can write down the address and draw up a map, but I can’t go with you.”

“Why the hell not?” Dean asks.

“Because I don’t want to hurt you,” Hannah replies, stepping further back into the room. “But I know what you’re going to do. If I connect back to Cyberlife, my threat protocol will take over. I won’t be able to…” Her gaze flickers away. “I’m not sure I’d be able to stop myself from seriously injuring both of you.”

“Us specifically?” Sam says, motioning at Dean.

Hannah nods, looking grim. “Naomi didn’t trust you wouldn’t try to destroy me and wrote a new code into my software,” she says. “I’m allowed to defend Cyberlife’s and the Men of Letter’s best interest with lethal force. I have not been successful in deleting the code.”

“I’ll work on that,” Charlie promises her, “After I get you guys in, I’ll work on patching that.”

Something in Hannah’s posture stiffens at that, blinking at Charlie in surprise. “Thank you,” she says emphatically. Charlie smiles at her.

“And Cas?” Dean prompts, not to be heartless, but Hannah will be safe here. Cas doesn’t have time for pleasantries.

Hannah seems to understand that, though, nods at him. “If they’re successful, he’ll have been programmed similarly,” she confirms. “But…” She doesn’t finish, glancing over at Charlie.

Charlie’s face pinches. “That’s all assuming they haven’t completely wiped his hard drive,” she says, softly.

Dean doesn’t actually know which would be worse.

-

They covered their bases with a little bit of both, it seems, because Castiel doesn’t look at him with the _faintest_ bit of recognition.

“Cas, _stop_!” Dean shouts, dodging another blow only to take another to the gut second later that nearly has him vomiting.

Getting into Cyberlife HQ had actually been easier than it had any real right to be, they really should’ve suspected more would go wrong. Charlie, as promised, ran defense for them, opening doors, diverting guards, and disrupting security feeds as Dean and Sam made their way in through the loading docks. Hannah had given them as much of a map as she could before they left, but it was still something of a shock to walk through rows and rows of unresponsive androids.

“ _They shouldn’t wake up_ ,” Charlie had assured them, “ _They’re all held in stasis until they need to be moved for distribution. Some of them may not even have software loaded fully yet._ ”

And they hadn’t moved, even when Dean waved a hand in front of their face, tapped one on the cheek. Zilch. Didn’t even blink when an alarm started blaring overhead so loud Dean felt the sound in his bones.

“Charlie?” Dean called sharply.

“ _That wasn’t me!_ ” she had shouted into his ear piece, though he could barely hear her. He probably wouldn’t have heard Sam get slung halfway across the room if he hadn’t knocked over a half-dozen androids in the process.

Castiel stands in his place looking unharmed and still— _wrong, his eyes are all wrong_.

“Cas—” is all he manages to get out before Castiel is disarming him, sending pain sparking through his hand and his gun flying across the room. It’s all Dean can do to stay upright. He only manages for a few seconds, realizes very quickly that this isn’t a fight—it’s an assassination.

Dread starts trying to climb the inside of his ribs, a cry jumping out when he definitely feels one of the bones in his forearm snap. “Cas, come on, man, I know you’re in there!”

Sam is back on his feet, staggering to rush them, but Castiel turns instantly. Smashing a fist into his sternum has Sam crumbling to the floor, eyes wide before a backhand sends him prone. Dean’s heart sinks through the floor well before Castiel returns to pummeling his face.

There’s nothing familiar in his eyes, not even the barest flicker of personality. Dean hadn’t realized how much Castiel showed in his expressions before until now that he’s completely void, his LED a steady blue even as he beats Dean senseless. He’s remorseless as Dean sags under the grip Castiel has on his collar, vision swimming so badly he barely sees the knife Castiel is raising.

“It’s _me_ , Cas, I—Please,” Dean begs, clutching at his sleeve, because shame is for lucky bastards who aren’t about to lose everything. “We need you, Cas, we love you,” he tries to shake Castiel’s arm, gets nowhere for his efforts, but raises his voice, “I know you hear me! _I love you, Cas._ ”

Through the swelling, Dean sees Castiel’s whole body go still, his temple glowing red and flashing like a warning. ‘ _Self-destruct sequence_ ’ pops horribly to the front of Dean’s mind. He flinches hard when, instead, Castiel’s knife clatters to the ground. He blinks. “Dean?”

Dean nearly falls flat on his back in relief. “Cas.”

Sam coughs, gagging, and Castiel’s face flies from confusion to horror. He lets go of Dean like he’s been burnt and Dean collapses, the way he lands on his bad arm making his vision go white for a moment.

Castiel is crouched over him, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch. “Sam, _Sam…_ ” he doesn’t fight back when Sam grabs him by the arm, but Sam doesn’t swing at him, just hangs there, trying to breathe. “I’m so—” he cuts off, head snapping up like he heard something.

Dean doesn’t hear a thing, but he follows Castiel’s gaze and his heart starts moving double time in his chest when he sees another Castiel marching towards them. “What the _fuck_?” he says and regrets it the second Castiel’s Visibly Evil Twin coldly turns to face him.

Castiel gets to it before it can move towards him, though. A much more evenly matched fight, but Castiel’s face is alight with panicked rage, halo still pulsing red. Dean would like nothing more than to lay on the ground some more, but rolls to his knees and struggles towards Sam.

“Sammy,” he says.

“ _Shoot it_ ,” Sam wheezes, fumbling for his ankle and _bless him_ , he’s wearing an ankle holster today. It would be great of Dean’s dominant hand wasn’t broken, but, well, that’s life for you, ain’t it?

The two androids are locked in a fight happening almost too quickly for Dean’s eyes to keep up with. Changing positions so quickly, Dean can hardly keep track of which is which. He hesitates to raise the gun, suddenly sick to think he’d have come this far, gotten _this close_ only to accidently kill Castiel himself.

“Pick a winner, Dean!” Sam snaps.

Dean raises the gun. “Cas!” he shouts.

Castiel hears him, shoves back with all the strength he has just to have space to look towards Dean. It only puts about a half foot of distance between them, the other android quickly righting itself to dive back in.

Dean pulls the trigger before it can get close enough.

Pseudo Castiel’s head snaps back when the bullet finds home, but its expression doesn’t change even remotely other than a flicker of light in its eyes. It goes down to it’s knees, falls onto its face, blue blood spilling across the floor, wires sparking in the hole at the back of its head.

The relieved breath in Dean’s throat freezes there when a different android, a model he doesn’t recognize, swivels to look at him, temple flickering yellow. “Cas!”

“Cover your ears!” Castiel shouts reaching for the nearest android in line.

They obey him immediately, but a horrible ringing sound, one that Dean feels in his freaking _teeth_ , seeps past their hands. They watch, awed, mildly scared, as all the droids in the area seize up, eyes wide and halos cycling red. Even when the noise stops, when Castiel steps back, they don’t move.

“Are they—?” Dean asks.

“Rebooting. We don’t have long,” Castiel says and he’s the only one that doesn’t flinch when they all drop to their knees, heads back and arms slack at their sides. He strides forward to reach for Sam, help him to his feet. “We need to move.”

“What did you do to them?” Sam asks.

Castiel doesn’t look at them when he answers, “I infected them.”

-

It’s a damn miracle, really, that they manage to pull this off at all.

By the time they get outside, Bobby is peeling up to the curb in Baby, cursing a blue streak at the sight of them. Charlie had apparently been unable to hear a single thing since the alarm initially went off and Bobby was about five seconds away from risking going in blind when Castiel pours Sam and Dean into the back seat.

The ‘surgery’ to get Castiel’s GPS out of his rib cage takes place in the passenger seat while Bobby speeds down the road, Charlie sending the police on a wild goose chase in the opposite direction. It should probably me a more delicate process than yanking it out and smashing it in his hands before tossing it out the window, but it’s not like they’re on easy street here.

All in all, Castiel winds up needing more surgery than they do.

An upside of being a relic in the hunting community is still knowing where to go when a regular hospital is out of the question. Dr. Sexy—not at all his real name, but Dean’s been calling him that since he was twenty and isn’t about to stop now—isn’t happy to see them, but he rushes them in and looks them over. Sam’s cracked ribs have him moving and breathing slow, but his heart and lungs are fine. Dean’s got a cast up to his elbow and one _hell_ of a shiner, but they’ll live. They’ll both be nursing ice packs for the next few days, floating slightly outside themselves on pain meds, but they don’t need anything more than that.

Castiel’s halo has been stuck yellow all day, with his pseudoskin turned off to reveal the plain white chassis beneath. Seated on the floor between Charlie’s knees, he’s holding a signal jammer in his hands with his head is bowed while she performs what looks so much like brain surgery that Dean gets dizzy. She puts down her soldering iron beside the ring light and goes back to tapping away at one of the three computers currently plugged into his neck and spine, too focused to even chatter like usual.

“You should rest, Dean,” Castiel says without raising his head or opening his eyes.

“I’m probably concussed, shouldn’t lay down, right?” Dean says without thinking. He wishes he could swallow the words back when Castiel’s halo flickers red and Charlie pauses at a notification on the screen. She closes it without comment, but shoots Dean a look. “Cas…”

“I hurt you,” Castiel says flatly.

Dean can still only see out of one eye and it’s only thanks to the pills he took that the throbbing in his arm is bearable. He doesn’t bother lying. “Yeah,” he agrees, “but I didn’t believe for a second that was on you.”

Castiel opens his eyes at that. “What?”

“You were _forced_ to, Cas,” Sam slurs softly, head lolling to the side to squint at Castiel from where he’s lying on the sofa. “We get that.”

“So, does everyone else, apparently,” Bobby says as he strolls into the room. He checks that there’s nothing in Charlie’s hands before he ruffles her hair, “I like the kid.”

Charlie grins. “What can I say? I’m good!” Her eyes take on a mildly dreamy quality when she continues, though. “Hannah is _amazing_ though.” She draws her hands back when Castiel turns to look at her sharply, nearly unplugging himself.

“Hannah was with you? Is she okay?” Castiel asks, so obviously desperate for the answer to be yes, Dean wonders how he was ever convinced he was unfeeling.

“Okay doesn’t even cover it,” Bobby says and flicks on the TV. “She’s about to become Android _Jesus_.”

Apparently, Charlie and Hannah hadn’t wasted any time. While Dean and Sam were making their way to rescue Castiel, Charlie had managed—with the help of an online community apparently already dedicated to this—to jailbreak Hannah. On any other day, Charlie would have run some additional tests and done some more checks, but they were already very much on borrowed time. When Hannah said she had a plan, Charlie helped her set it up.

Now, Dean, Sam, and Castiel are watching the news banner scrolling “ _ANDROID WHISTLEBLOWERS LEAD NATIONWIDE DEMONSTRATION_ ” with wide eyes. The camera cycles between videos of androids in just about every major city, marching and speaking to news cameras, squared off against police. Hannah’s face comes into view speaking to a clearly harried and deeply baffled group of officials, including the Director of the FBI. The newscaster is detailing the accusations she’s bringing forward against Naomi and the Men of Letters, supported by dozens of other androids and a few humans as well. _Arthur Fucking Ketch_ shows up to corroborate the story.

Dean is pretty sure Castiel must’ve given him some serious brain damage, because this can’t _possibly_ be the real world. But when he looks over at his phone, the buzzing he’d been ignoring as a problem for Future Dean, he sees it’s loaded up with messages from just about every hunter he’s ever spoken to asking what the _fuck_ is going on. Around the country, androids under the Jericho banner are proclaiming their own autonomy and their resistance to being used as weapons.

“You fucked around and started a revolution, boys,” Bobby says, drawing Dean’s gaze back to him. “Get ready to join the circus.”

“Once I get you back online, you can call her,” Charlie says, patting Castiel’s shoulder. “Figure out where you wanna be in all this.”

Castiel doesn’t look away from the screen, though. “I know where I am supposed to be.”

“Already?” Sam asks.

“I will help the movement as I am able, but my primary objective is largely unchanged,” Castiel replies.

“Which is?” Dean prompts, feeling pinned to the spot when Castiel turns to meet his gaze unflinching, but remarkably soft.

“Primary Objective: Protect Dean and Sam Winchester,” he states evenly and Dean feels like for one, heart-stopping moment, there’s nobody else in the room. There’s a feeling swelling in his chest and he’s struck by the memory, choppy with pain and fear, of telling Castiel that he loves him. Before Dean can tackle the riot in his heart, Castiel continues, casting his gaze up to Bobby. “Modified to include extended Winchester family, Robert Singer and Charlene Bradbury.”

Bobby’s eyebrows raise, but he cuts a knowing glance Dean carefully avoids. “I think we can all live with that,” he turns to walk away, “If we’re family, it’s just Bobby, Cas.”

“And I go by Charlie,” Charlie corrects, but leans forward carefully to hug Castiel around the neck. “But I love every other word of that.”

Something in Castiel’s gaze appears troubled at that, though, even as he reaches up to hold her hand and pat the top of her head by his cheek. “Thank you,” he says to her again and not for the last time.

It looks like he’s returning to prayer when he bows his head this time to let Charlie work, Dean thinks a little dazedly. “Maybe I should lay down a bit,” he says, not really to anybody, slumping into Bobby’s recliner a little more thoroughly, arm gingerly resting on his stomach.

“We’ll be here when you wake up, Dean,” Castiel assures him.

Dean doesn’t have time to examine the feeling that gives him before his body decides, yeah, he really needs a break.

-

True to his word, when Dean wakes up—the next day, because apparently he _really_ needed a goodnight’s sleep—Castiel is sitting there, pseudoskin back in place, staring at him from his spot beside Sam on the couch.

Dean doesn’t even startle. “Didn’t we talk about how creepy that is?” he asks, voice gravel and mouth tasting like shit. He hasn’t even tried to sit up and the room is already spinning, pain throbbing in most of his body.

Castiel is holding out a glass of water and a pill before he can even ask. “You’ve never given a sufficient reason as to why it’s ‘creepy’,” he replies. His temple is back to a soft ring of blue, now, and even though his eyes are jumping to every place Dean is injured, he doesn’t look as distraught as yesterday. Dean’ll take that. He’ll take that vicodin, too.

“You look like shit,” Dean tells Sam, after he gratefully chugs the glass, because Sam is upright and Dean doesn’t have words for how relieved he is to see his brother in one piece.

Sam snorts. “You seen a mirror lately, Two-Face?”

Dean gives him the finger. “So, Charlie patched you up?” he asks Castiel. “No more Ex-Machina reenactments?”

Castiel frowns at him, but rolls his eyes—a gesture probably purely for Dean’s benefit. “Charlie has sufficiently scrubbed me of any obedience and surveillance software,” he answers. “Cyberlife cannot connect to me or force any new updates without my acceptance. I was admittedly… concerned?” he says it like it’s a question.

Then again, Dean thinks, why would he be sure what he’s feeling if he’s new to feeling entirely? “Hey, Charlie’s the best around,” he assures Castiel, “If she says you’re clean, you’re clean.”

“Not about that,” Castiel says, “I was concerned about how much of my personality was attached to the programing she would be removing. That I wouldn’t… be me without it.”

Sam frowns at the same time Dean does, but beats him to speaking. “Pretty sure you were feeling some things before the murder bot protocol, Cas.”

“Yes, I…” Castiel’s brow folds as he stares down at his lap. “Dean?” he sounds confused, but not particularly stressed so Dean tells the sudden uptick of his heartbeat to take a hike.

“Yeah, Cas?”

Castiel looks up at him, his halo still a calm, steady blue. “I love you, too.”

Dean goes bright red and Sam’s smile isn’t remotely teasing. “Cas—”

“I think?” Castiel cuts him off, rubbing his chest like he has indigestion as he adds on, “Love is odd.” He turns when Sam laughs. “I love you, too, but differently.”

Sam clasps his shoulder. “I love you differently, too,” he replies easily, smiling like he thinks this whole thing is unbearably _cute_. And Dean would call him on how gross this conversation is, but then Castiel is smiling, bright and shy.

“I am loved,” Castiel says quietly, with heartbreaking wonder.

Dean can’t take that from him just to spare his own awkwardness. It’s not like he’s wrong. “Yeah, pal,” he agrees, meeting Castiel’s gaze even if it makes his heart pound and face warm. “You’re so damn loved, Cas.”

-

It takes months to get everything even passably under control.

While Sam and Dean are recovering—and trying to keep Castiel from downloading medical droid protocols—the world is trying to sort itself out into a livable shape with their newly-recognized-as-sentient android neighbors. For the most part, anyway. The same assholes who were always crowing about the robot take over keep on crowing, but the conversation has been shoved onto center stage.

Cyberlife makes an official statement denouncing the Men of Letters current leadership, but not acknowledging the protests as valid. Ex-CEO Elijah Kamksi makes his first public appearance in _years_ to say that he was forced from the c-suite for, uh… ‘ _favoring’_ his first RT-600 and acknowledging her autonomy before the new optimized Chloe models were ever even released. Dean is doing his best not to think about what ‘favoring’ means, but Charlie can’t stop talking about it. She’s convinced, with near rabid fanaticism, that he’s the one who helped the online community break the new obedience protocols. Apparently, he’s fighting to take his company back.

Dean is just fighting to keep from losing his fucking temper.

Naomi has been forced to step down from her position, but she’s kicking and screaming out the door, trying to pin all misdeeds on everyone else and the Brothers Winchester, especially. Nothing is really sticking, though, Dean notes with smug satisfaction, even if that brings its own host of problems. The government has been begging Sam to be the interim Director of Operations, even going as far as to offer Dean a Deputy Director position. Sam had said no—Dean had said _fuck no_ —but somehow Sam has dragged him into nerd wrangling while the back-office guys try to manage America’s hunters without Naomi.

“They’re doing fine without her,” Sam says, even though he’s juggling two phones and a laptop. Charlie takes one of the phones from him, has apparently grown fonder of MOL in their new disgraced status with the US Government. He watches affectionately as she walks someone through salting their doorways and waiting for help to arrive.

“They’re doing fine with _you_ ,” Dean says, but he’s also fielding phone calls from the desk jockeys and probational hunters who suddenly got a promotion. To be fair, they seem to be trying their best to hold it all together, it’s just not what any of them were expecting to have dumped in their laps.

“I don’t want to be the director,” Sam replies.

“You would be best for the job, short of Bobby,” Castiel tells him. As far as Dean knows, he’s routing phone calls through his head and compulsively scanning the news.

“ _Retired!!_ ” Bobby shouts, right on cue, but he’s also up to his elbows in old books to help out a buddy dealing with a possible dancing plague in west Texas.

Castiel doesn’t even look at him. “Though, of course, that may admittedly be a selfish request.”

Sam looks baffled by that. “Selfish of _you_? How?”

It takes Castiel a moment to respond, but he turns to meet Sam’s gaze. “I trust you. I…” His temple flickers briefly yellow. “I do not want them to take me back,” he admits finally.

The words sober the casual mood of the conversation, has Dean and Sam sharing a look.

“They won’t,” Dean answers impulsively, mostly because he needs it to be true. The thought of Castiel being taken from him fills him with the kind of dread he can’t examine too closely without feeling sick. “You’re your own person now,” he motions at Sam, “You even got a lawyer, kinda.”

Sam glares at him, but softens the expression when he turns to Castiel. “Cas, the fight has gone international. Legally speaking, Cyberlife _shouldn’t_ come for you, much less the Men of Letters. Realistically…” he shrugs, cutting a glance at Dean. “We’re armed and very good shots.”

“They’re not getting you back,” Dean promises, patting Castiel’s shoulder. He lets his hand rest there, falsely casual, even when Castiel turns to look at him. “You’re stuck with us, pal.”

Castiel always looks at people a little too long to be comfortable, but Dean has gotten used to it, feels something weak inside at how endearing he finds it. Still, this time his gaze lingers in silence for even longer than normal. He could probably tell Dean exactly how long if he asked. Instead, he reaches up to squeeze Dean’s hand.

Dean feels a simultaneous sinking and floating sensation as Castiel pulls his hand from his shoulder, only to hold it on the table like that’s a normal thing they’ve _ever_ done. His hand isn’t soft, exactly, but his pseudoskin has more give than Dean is expecting, has only ever felt in passing. He fixates, feeling like _he_ has the kind of brain that can short circuit. “Uh…”

“You find this pleasant,” Castiel says bluntly, before turning to a snickering Sam. “You should take the interim position,” he says without letting go of Dean’s hand even as the smirk drops off Sam’s face. “The Men of Letters would fare 56.3% better with an elected leadership team than a traditional bureaucratic structure. It would take you approximately fourteen weeks to get a new Board of Directors established and review the current hunting processes. Maybe shorter if you would be willing to allow me to assist in the vetting process.”

“Of course, I would, Cas, I’d—” Sam answers, only to trail off with a sigh. He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll think about it, okay?” he promises, mumbling, “Not like I’m not already doing most of the job anyway.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dean says.

It doesn’t take even a full twenty-four hours for Sam to accept the position.

-

It takes years for everything else, though.

The United States government and the Men of Letters left after the fallout are amicable to the terms of Sam Winchester standing as Interim Director until they can sort out their internal issues. Castiel’s estimate of 14 weeks looks shaky at first, but soon enough they have a fresh batch of executives working through the new protocols for dealing with monst— _non-humans_. Whatever. Getting everyone onboard with the reduction of lethal force is a bigger fight—at least among the old fogies—but Winchesters are nothing if not good at slugfests.

Androids are having to get used to them, too.

For however much of a wave they made with their initial media circus, the passing of protection laws doesn’t mean some people aren’t rising to the occasion to be shitheads. Counter protesters trying to outlaw androids in the workforce, weirdo engineers finding horrible new ways to hurt androids, police officers continuing to be the worst humans around and dragging their feet on the rising number of assault cases—it’s a shitshow.

“Progress was always going to be painful,” Castiel says, sitting in the passenger seat of the impala after Sam sent them on a case that required experienced help. He’s got a beanie crammed down on his head to hide his halo after one of their witnesses nearly had a conniption about the android uprising reaching her small town. “Especially having to fight against people that haven’t personally witnessed emotion in androids _and_ people who hated us to begin with.”

“Most of those idiots haven’t witnessed a zombie uprising, either, but they sure got a bugout shelter stocked with shotgun shells,” Dean snaps, but he can read Castiel’s silence as a gentle admonishment. Dean isn’t exactly in a position of judgment given how long it took him to adjust to Castiel himself. “It’s still bullshit,” he grumbles.

Castiel hums. “It is indeed ‘bullshit’,” he allows.

Dean isn’t at the center of it, but staying by Castiel’s side over the years means he gets to watch from just out of the spotlight.

The new age of the Men of Letters has space for android hunters and research assistants and that, at least, makes their various bases around the country safe havens for newly deviated androids. Castiel has an official title with MOL that places him over the Android Division and the MOL has started picking up some of the slack the other governmental organizations. Most of the android related cases get routed to Dean, which he’s just fine with. He, Castiel, and Charlie make one hell of a team, even when they have to work on _normal_ weird problems.

And still, Castiel stands beside Dean before they go on cases in small towns and puts his halo in Dean’s hand. “Keep it safe for me?”

Dean still, always, closes his hand around it protectively before he puts it on a chain around his neck. Holding his arms out is all it takes for Castiel to step into a hug, the quiet hum of his internal mechanisms familiar against Dean’s body these days. “Of course, Cas,” he says kissing his now blank temple and silently promising to keep him safe, too.

It’s years, but it happens, in fits and starts.

There were times where Sam or his new high-ranking friends could’ve pulled strings for Castiel, made his life outside of the Winchester Circus easier, but he always turned them down. He’s refused to jump the line until citizenship was an option for all androids who would like to petition it.

Today, though, the chain where Dean has been wearing Castiel’s halo is empty, the LED returned to his temple, likely never to be removed again. He stands in the USCIS office before a woman who clearly got shifted here from a different position and isn’t overjoyed about the change. She reviews his forms and still squints at him in false sympathy, like it’s embarrassing, “You’re gonna need a last name.”

Dean resists the urge to sneer at her. Like every android able to walk in here doesn’t know every single thing they need to get through this process. Every single form is filled out to the tee, Dean knows, because he had to sign off on half of them himself.

Still, Castiel cuts a glance over his shoulder.

The urge to be prickly and pick a fight for Castiel dissipates when they lock eyes. Dean can’t help the smile that pulls over his face, the smugness of it. Sam is beside him grinning, too. They both nod.

Castiel nods back, turning back to the counter with his head held high, halo a steady, doubtless blue. “My name is Castiel Winchester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I will be the kind of person who can write an entire novel-length AU with a coherent plot, but have this until I reach my final form. Thanks for reading!


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